BABY DUCK

Maybe it is wishful thinking. Maybe the child in me never stops hoping for a miracle. Maybe it is magic anyway.

Ducks stay the winter. They didn't always. When winters were still winters that meant it, ducks flew away more South where temperatures seemed friendlier to them.

But winters have become rather wishy-washy. Not fierce enough to frighten the winged ones away. And why would they not stay? That species called humans brings them food a plenty. When
fish , water insects, and plants are scarce, humans provide. Well meant, but not wise.

I live near a creek streaming strong enough to not freeze over. In a white snow landscape, the water looks black. Black and mysterious. Ducks gather there protected by the woodsy grow both sides. Spring must be on their mind. Mating is on their mind. There are exactly as many males as females busily duck talking and swimming around. A peaceful sound. Their feather coats shine. A deep, gleamy shine.

But wait, no duckling could be born yet, could it? What's that cheepy, whistling baby sound. A bird? I search the trees around. No bird in sight. I've heard this sound now each day I pass. I stop to look. Try to find a duck that forgot to grow up. I study their individual faces. See if one sounds different from the others. But although I hear that clear sound repeat itself, I cannot pin point it.

So I dream of other dimensions. Maybe I walk on the dividing line between two. Maybe another world is entering my awareness. It is late spring in that world. It is alive with many birds, and colourful flowers. It is a young world full of babies and life beginning. A little duckling got separated from his mommy. It calls out in a clear voice. I can hear it. It is speed-run-swimming -hardly touching the water- after her.

From my wintry world I entered new life. Did I? Ah, sometimes I don't like mysteries explained. A little later, suddenly, a flock of mourning doves took flight, out of nowhere seemingly. I heard the whistling from their wings.

And I knew, a single one of that sound was my baby duck. Or the sound from a duck that forgot to grow up. Right in this world. No mystery, no miracle, no magic. But wait, that's not right either, is it?

The whistling sound from the wings of a mourning dove, isn't that mysterious and magic in itself? Those pairs of gleaming ducks, preparing for spring and new life, using their duck emotions and wisdom, how can that be common? Me standing here, listening, watching, dreaming, experiencing at different levels... Ah yes, I think, miracles do exist.

LYING POETS

While I was wading knee deep through the Westheight River...

Sounds good, doesn't it? I think so. But it isn't true. It wasn't even ankle deep. More over, Westheight isn't a river. Just a street. Still, it was raining heavily, and all that snow was melting, melting, melting, and Westheight may as well have been a river while I walked there with my seemingly drowned retriever.

We took a turn, and wended our way to a path along the creek. But Creek we did not find. She had been taken over by Thundering River, eager to get where ever he was going, at a speed of one hundred miles an hour. And the ducks loved it. Without using their wings, they were flying down that river, laughing.


And while I was wading knee deep through the Westheight River, dreams of a white Christmas were gurgling down the drain. Like the “Rain in Spain.” It was two days past winter solstice with the promise of every day a little bit more light. What a sunny thought!!!

I was thinking about all these things while wading knee deep through the Westheight River, wondering where that quiet creek had gone. Wondering about truth and non truth.

Is writing about telling the truth? Is the truth poetic? I like language to sound like music. Writing is like weighing words. Strike a balance. Add a word here, take one away there, arrange them. Make them sound like music Make them sing.

I could have started with, “I walked on Westheight Road with my dog. It was raining hard. We sloshed through lots of water...

That would have been the truth. But what is truth? That what I see outwardly, or what I experience inwardly? What sounds nice, and what sounds blah? Who's the judge?

ALL THAT WHITE STUFF

S N O W

S N O W

S N O W

S N O W

Soft snow

Never ending snow

Over the hills and far away snow

Whether we like it or not snow


let it snow let it snow let it snow

let's have snow days no work just play days

let's play play play in the snow

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE


wild thing

BITTER/SWEET

This morning, awake, getting dressed, I tried to think of something. I hit a blank. So I mumbled wistfully the first stanza of the following poem. I actually wrote the the words down, looked at them and continued,

Here's the result,

BITTER SWEET MEMORY

there are blanks in my brain
i don't care to be there
there are blanks in my brain
that ought not occur

they spread too
those blanks in my brain
make me forget
what i ought to remember

frustrating like hell
those blanks in my brain
but what can a mortal do
time being the dictator

we're all mortals
in this universe
our vital signs will fade fade
fade slowly away

if we're blessed to live to
a ripe old age that is
now isn't that a
bitter sweet memory


Wild Thing thinking

OH BLOGGER!!!

OH BLOGGER!!!

Maybe I have to change my mind about November. There have been some pretty marvelous days in this year's, like today. Cold though!. The old winter coat is revisited again. Had that thing for near twenty years. Bought it for 35 dollar at Bargain Harold's, way back then. It's warm, washable, and comfortable. It outlasted several other winter coats.

Did a long Simon walk, this morning. I just came home. Walked along the Conostogo Parkway Trail, all the way to the hydro pole tower and back. Sun, blue skies, pure white clouds, pretty birds flitting by, layers of golden leafs to shuffle your feet through. Many of them still cling to their trees.

I was thinking about Larry's latest blog posts. Wars, fears, unbearably stupid politics, gullibility... and it was so strange thinking about all that horror, walking so peacefully along, feeling happy, on a beautiful day in nature. And it is not just a today thing. Things don't change, don't really get better, when you really think about it. I thought about, and went back, to my very first book of poems, I put together in a dummy book, to a poem written in February 1968, when my English was still pretty iffy.

Passing Shadows

I'm free to roam around the fields,
To greet the golden sun,
To touch a flow'r along my path
To see a fast stream run.
To listen to the whisp'ring winds.
To hear a birdy tweet:
I'm free to fill my heart with joy
To shy a poison weed.

I'm happy on a hearty walk,
I feel like nature's child, I skip, I dance, I twirl, I sing,
And let myself run wild.
I like to think that this is it,
The sun, this land, no more.
But elsewhere in this wond'rous world
They fight an ugly war.

To just believe that life is good,
That somewhere 'long the line,
All people get an even chance,
For deep felt joy like mine...!
But there, I know this is not so,
And on me creeps a guild
That I should go without a care
While others live in filth.


I guess that was the Vietnam War?

Thinking about the situations in the world, and even just in Canada, enjoying my morning walk with Simon, I felt the irony again, I felt guilty for feeling so good. And then I wondered, which I do so often,
why I always seem to be in the good part of the world. Well yes, I experienced the Second world War. And it was scary. But for the rest of my life, in Holland as well as in Canada, war always seems to be elsewhere.

Our democracies are far from perfect. Big Brother is really watching us. The creep! But somehow, here in our part of the world, compared to Iraq and Afghanistan, and so, it is more peaceful.

And I wondered if it maybe has to do with the richer Western countries, money wise, (not wise as in wisdom) where people can live better, eat better, that it is relatively more peaceful. Although there is a lot of road rage and so...

I don't know. Again, the best thing I know what to do about it myself, is what I am doing. Stay out of the system as much as I can, do the best I can, and hope for the best.

It's a perfect day today, to me. I am eating the last piece of my halloween pumpkin done up in the oven, along with some carrots and potato's topped with cheese, Simon lazing about outside, talking to passers by, Yona fast asleep in a secret place, and soon my gang coming over and going for supper to Haysville.

This post is really a reaction to Larry's Mental blog postings. Wild thing cannot communicate with Larry on Larry's blog. Somehow she cannot get comments published on it. An old problem persisting from one computer to another.

Wild Thing

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"Great Artists do get hicups!!!"

-Brittany Dawn Thomas-


Found this one in my documents where the kids save their stuff too.

Wild Thing